Executioner's Regrets
Steve Crow
The man known as "The Ghost" strode into the Fat Chance Saloon. As always, one part of his
mind carefully analyzed every entrance, every shadow, every, every drunken occupant of the bar.
His group, and Katie Karl's as well, had long since determined that it was as safe a place as any
in Gomorra for a public meeting. And he knew from harsh personal experience that there was no
better method of drawing attention to yourself than by conspiring in some dark deep corner out
of public sight.
However, he never took chances. Reflectively, the Ghost tugged at the scarred tissue behind his
right ear. He had learned that lesson as well. These days, he was a lot more indestructible, but a
well-placed bullet could still put him down. He was fortunate his first killer was a poor shot.
One more inch, and there wouldn't have been enough grey matter for...well, something or
another to latch on to.
Whether the saloon was safe or not was a moot point: the Ghost had an errand to perform, and
nothing was going to stop him. He glanced over at the dwarf barkeep, Landers. The man was
casually polishing a glass while watching his now-familiar customer survey the Saloon. He
nodded to a beaded curtain near the back.
The Ghost strode confidently across the room. Even before he reached the curtain, he could
smell the reek of grain alcohol. The heavy odor was enough to disguise a half-wasted Harrowed,
although the Ghost preferred cologne himself.
Damned fool's going to get himself killed, the Ghost thought. Then: Maybe that's what he
wants.
Sweeping aside the curtain, the Ghost surveyed the small private room that lay beyond. It was
little more than a booth, although the walls were solid. The one small table took up most of the
space. Seated behind it was a red-haired man, slumped half back in his chair and holding up a
glass of whiskey before him. One half-filled bottle, and a half-dozen empties, lay scattered on
the tabletop in a pool of booze.
The man looked up blearily from his contemplative stupor. Struggling, he waved a weak
greeting to the Ghost, who looked at him in contempt.
"Greetings, sirrrh," Cort Williams slurred out. "My apologies if I cahn't greet you properly, but I
sheem to find myself...indisposed at the moment."
The Ghost glared at the man. The full force of his gaze, which had once moved men to march
off to war on their brothers, now had the powers of Heaven and Hell behind it. But Williams
stared back defiantly, unflinching. He might be drinking to forget his sorrows, but he had lost
none of his nerve. It was that nerve which the Ghost was going to need.
Sitting himself down in the room's one remaining chair, the Ghost pondered the wreck of a man
before him for a minute. Williams returned the stare for a moment, then returned to his drinking,
emptying the shot glass and pouring himself another.
Williams might not be the best straight-up shooter the Ghost had ever had serve under him. Slate
had been better overall. Roberts and the new fella, Derek, could probably match Cort bullet-for-bullet. But the man could put down a vampire or a werewolf without flinching. He had traveled
far and wide, and his knowledge of the supernatural was unrivaled. Only now was the Ghost
beginning to realize where he might have picked up some of that knowledge.
The massacre at the Golden Mare had left him short-handed, though. Bad enough he had to join
forces with Rebel scum. He needed his most trusted lieutenant at his side. Quentin was at his
counterpart Prospectus' throat, Sister Mary was still on the critical list, Dean was no fighter,
Roberts and Armstrong were still trying to maintain their public covers, Gallagher was a mover,
not a fighter, and O'Bannon and Derek were untested qualities.
The Ghost needed Williams. He needed an even-tempered fighter that he could trust. Cort was
the one who scouted out the trouble spots in advance, provided the info, and was there when the
stakes went in and the silver bullets flashed.
A minute of silence filled the room, broken only by the sounds of whiskey going down a man's
throat. Finally, the Ghost spoke up, "So, you going to tell me what the matter is, son? Or do I
have to beat it out of you?"
Cort finished off his current glass, than put it down on the table with exaggerated gentility. He
looked at the Ghost. Then he sighed wearily.
"They're dead. Rocescu, Quaid, Slate. All dead. And I'm responsible."
"Damn you to hell, you're straight on that one, Williams!" the Ghost snapped.
A look of drunken surprise ran across Williams' face. "You knew?!?"
"Do you think I'm an idiot, son? You wouldn't be on my team if I didn't know everything about
you, from what day your momma changed your first nappie, to what you were doing during that
little recon stunt over to the Golden Mare a few weeks ago."
"But it was daylight, and I told you they couldn't do anything. That's how I was able to get
out..."
"That, and that 'Meizhu,' your old gal, let you go. Or you let her go. I'll grant you, I don't know
exactly what went on in that room. But she didn't leave town despite your warning, did she?
And you knew she wouldn't..."
"Maybe..."
"Maybe nothing," the Ghost snapped out. "I don't know what she once was. But she's evil now.
Maybe she was always like that. Or maybe it's the thing inside her driving her to it. Believe me,
I can understand that."
"But iffn' that's the case, she can't control it. She's got to be put down. Same way that if
I...went over, I'd expect you to do the same for me."
"But I made her a promise, a long time ago..."
"And you swore an oath to do your duty by me and your country too, Cort. No man knows better
than me the price you have to pay by balancing duty and oath. I may not have killed them
myself, but the blood of thousands of men cover my hands. Men I swore to protect, not to send
off to war. But I knew my duty, and them and me all paid the price. I'm still paying it, come to
that. When you sober up, let me tell you about a little visit I paid to the Mission House a few
days ago."
William's shoulders slumped as he gazed down at the tabletop, contemplating the empty bottles.
The Ghost shrugged and rose to his feet. "Your choice, son. You can drink yourself to death
here, while Gomorra comes tumblin' down around you. If you're lucky, maybe someone'll
shoot you. Or if I don't make it back, maybe your old gal or one of her "girls" will stop over and
pay you a visit. You think you can balance your oaths and your duties after that happens?"
Mutely, Cort shook his head 'no'.
"I didn't reckon so. Or you can get up, come with me, we'll pour a couple gallons of that paint
varnish Dean calls 'coffee' down your throat, and see if you've still got what it takes."
Cort looked up. "Where are we headin'?"
"Right now, back to HQ. After that, we're going to pay your old girlfriend and her girls a little
visit over at the Golden Mare. Me, you, Katie Karl and some of her Rangers..."
"The Rangers?!?"
"You have been out of the way, son. Thanks to your little stunt, we're understaffed. Fortunately,
dependin' on how you look at it, so is she. Can't say I'm fond of teamin' up with Johnny Reb,
but we've got a truce going until things straighten out around here. Another reason I need you.
I'm Union, and undead. That's two reasons for her to put a bullet in me right there. I need a
man at my side, one I can trust. Are you up to it?"
There was a few moments of silence, then Cort got unsteadily to his feet. He staggered, but the
Ghost made no effort to offer him assistance.
Finally, Williams made it to the door. The Ghost turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and son..."
"Yes?"
"One more stunt like that, and I'll kill you myself."
© Stephen Crow, 1999